


My Job Ain't a Job

by frackin_sweet



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Boytoy Bucky, M/M, NYC Cop Steve, Winter Soldier AU, lol i'm drunk, no sleep til Brooklyn, this should've been longer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 11:46:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20545634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frackin_sweet/pseuds/frackin_sweet
Summary: Steve's investigating Alexander Pierce's organized crime connections and ends up at his Hamptons summer place, where there's a highly decorative pool ornament.





	My Job Ain't a Job

Steve knows that it's probably a long shot, to expect to catch Pierce at home. Biggest crime boss on the east coast isn't likely to be hanging around his Hamptons beach house getting a pedicure.

Unless he is doing exactly that, because he's filthy rich and the Feds have never been able to make a single charge stick, and he likes to thumb his nose at law enforcement.

The maid or housekeeper or whoever the uniformed lady peering through the doorway is lets him in without much hassle. The house is furnished like a country manor, with lots of overstuffed furniture and polished pale woods and touches of diesel-era aeronautical tech. It looks nothing like Pierce's penthouse, but that only stands to reason. A guy with that much money is going to have a house appropriate to its environment, and to whatever face he wants to wear there. Steve can practically imagine Pierce in tennis whites on the grass court overlooking the surf.

The pool out back is surprisingly conservative, just a long, narrow rectangle dropped into the flagstones. The pool's dozing inhabitant doesn't hear Steve's approach, so there's an opportunity to just watch him.

It's not creepy. Observation is a big part of a detective's job. Steve efficiently commits features to memory as though he may sketch this scene later (and he may). Start at the top: wet hair, dark and slick with water - droplets on his skin rather than rivulets because he was swimming earlier, but not seriously. Not a lap swimmer. Although he obviously does something to stay in shape. A bicep muscle twitches slightly - it's not entirely comfortable to sleep with your hands behind your head like that. If this guy lifts, he probably goes hard until he gets bored, then moves on to something else. Restless. Not a twink. Not particularly hairy, but he obviously doesn't wax - that's different. Steve's seen a few of Pierce's boy companions over the past long months, and they've all been slick and designer-packaging-pretty.

This one's pretty, all right. But he looks like he wouldn’t bother to work at it. His face has the cleanly cut planes and angles of the ideal male aesthetic, but Steve would guess he’s not long on vanity, if the cheap Ray-Ban knockoffs and baggy red-starred swim trunks are any indicator.

The stubble is a couple of days old - long enough to have attained the soft texture that feels so good on sensitive skin. Steve swallows, and his gaze catches on the lips - a ripe pink that suggests good vascular flow. Steve clears his throat in spite of himself.

And manages to startle his surveillance subject right off the floaty raft. Spluttering, the guy flails like an awkward puppy instead of Alexander Pierce’s kept boy du jour.

Steve stands at the pool’s edge as the guy surfaces and skims wet hair out of his eyes. “Hey, maybe a little warning next time?” The words are served up with a slightly crooked smile.

Steve can’t help but smile back. “I apologize. Although, how do you warn somebody sleeping in a pool that you’re about to talk to them?”

The guy squints up at him. “I dunno. Throw pebbles, maybe? Small ones?” 

“I’ll remember that.” Steve crouches down at the pool’s edge so that he isn’t forcing the guy to look straight up at the sun. “I’m Detective Steve Rogers, NYPD.”

A loud laugh is carried away by the Atlantic breakers. “Alexander isn’t here, sorry about your luck, Detective.” 

The utter lack of caution in the guy’s tone is charming, somehow. “I figured as much. I guess since I disturbed your morning nap I could talk to you, instead.”

“How’d ya know I was napping? Maybe I’m the pool boy.”

Steve can’t help but laugh. “Oh, okay. So where’s the pool skimmer?”

“It’s in the -” the guy does an almost comical head swivel. “I have no idea. You got me. I just lied to to the fuzz.” He comes close enough to hold out his hand. “I’m Bucky.”

Steve shakes his hand, running through a mental list of Pierce’s known companions. No Bucky. “That a nickname?”

“That’s having parents with a hard-on for Presidential history. James Buchanan Barnes, if you need the whole thing.” Bucky switches his grip on Steve’s hand just slightly. “Is it assaulting a police officer if I pull you in the pool?”

Steve feels his authority slipping away as he shifts his balance. “Yeah, probably, although I’ve had worse in the line of duty.”

Steve can’t help but feel a little bereft as Bucky releases his hand. “I bet you have.” Before he puts the bad sunglasses back on, Steve catches the flick of his gaze; a quick up-and-down. “Got a lot of war stories, I bet.”

“You’d win that bet.” This conversation is veering far away from where Steve wanted it to go, and he’s less assed about caring than is entirely comfortable. “So, do you often spend time at Mr. Pierce’s house when he’s not home?”

“He’s having a little get-together this weekend. I didn’t have plans. Plus, he sent a helicopter.”

“When are you expecting him?”

A shrug. “Could be tonight. Could be in the morning. Or he could walk in at the tail end of the party. And I’ll be all fucked up and there might be a scene.” Bucky drops his voice to a dramatic stage whisper at the end. 

Steve raises an eyebrow. “You could always take it easy on the booze. Or whatever you’re fucking yourself up with.”

“What’s the fun in that?” As if on cue, one of the usually invisible house staff appears bearing a tray of beverages. Bucky thanks her in some Slavic-sounding language and she smiles indulgently, as though he’s more than just a tolerated fixture of the household. He takes a swallow from one glass, grimaces, and holds it out to Steve. “Here, sorry, this one’s yours.”

Steve takes it and has to hold tightly as the condensation beading the glass threatens to slide it right out of his hand. “Thanks for the hospitality, but I’m on duty.”

Bucky tests his own drink and keeps sipping it with a much more satisfied look. “That’s plain iced tea. Awful. But suit yourself.” He reaches behind himself for the floaty raft. “Look, Detective. You can hang out if you want. Sandwiches or some other food item will probably appear later. Hell, take a swim, go poke around the house, whatever.”

It isn’t lost on Steve that Bucky has just given him implied consent for a search of the house, and that no way would that hold up in court once Pierce’s lawyers got hold of it. “I don’t suppose you know anything about Mr. Pierce’s recent dealings with the Diamanda Cartel?”

Bucky gulps a swallow of his drink as though he’s actually in a hurry to be helpful. “I know Blanca Diamanda. Go clubbing with her in South Beach sometimes.”

Well, the grand-niece of Cecilio Diamanda wasn’t really what he was going for, but with a little digging, maybe he can work with that. Steve takes a business card out of his wallet and holds it out. “How about you give me a call, and we can talk more about it when you’re not so…busy.”

Bucky’s wet fingers brush Steve’s as he takes it. He flips the card over. “What, you’re giving me the main office phone? Like I’m just another page in your official investigation file? I’m hurt.” He sticks out a pouty lip that makes Steve laugh again. 

Steve fishes a pen out of his jacket. “Okay. Here.” He scrawls his cell number on the back. “We’re not supposed to do this, but...I’d hate to make you feel like some page in a file.” 

Bucky’s grin is huge. “Thanks, Detective. I appreciate the personal touch.” He hops back on the raft, and Steve hopes he didn’t just put the card in the pocket of his swim trunks. “I’ll call you.”


End file.
